#297) Jism and Drool

#297) Jism and Drool

She discovered her Dad’s hidden stash of girlie magazines. They were in a lidded cardboard box in the closet in the den, secret but accessible. Harper wondered how often Dad looked at their glossy photographs. She knew her parents still “did it.” She saw her Mom in a risqué nightie at times, heard them getting frisky on weekends if she was home. She didn’t find these things gross or off-putting. Positive thoughts about them being healthy and good role models turned sour as she thought about her own sexuality. Harper had felt inhibited due to her religious beliefs when girls her age began experimenting years before. Then she felt as though she was too discerning, no guy she knew captured her fancy. They seemed like dolts. Now she was seen as too high maintenance, maybe even frigid. She tried to put her dismal personal situation out of her mind and just look at the pretty pictures.
So this is one way that Daddy keeps his inner fire stoked, Harper thought when she first leafed through some pages. I wonder if he has a favorite pictorial? She heard her own heart pounding, found her mouth dry, was afraid of getting caught, so put them away exactly as she found them.
But she was back a week later. This time she knew her folks would be out late. And she came armed with a Tootsie Roll sucker to keep the saliva flowing. She dug into the big box of magazines. Mom is a natural blonde, I wonder if Dad likes photos of younger women reminiscent of her, where the carpet matched the golden drapes, or did he favor variety, like this redhead, or that brunette? I like that brunette! Harper thought to herself. Pretty face, voluptuous body, she looked at home in her skin, looked like sex would be fun and frolicsome and frivolous, just what Harper wanted.
It was a gradual process of self-discovery. Harper evolved from appreciating the pictures of beautiful women for the aesthetics to finding certain women highly stimulating, so stimulating that Harper just had to touch herself, had to fantasize what it’d be like to play with them. She made it into a ritual. Harper would leaf through the pages of favorite models with her left hand while she masturbated with her right, all the while sucking on the candy stuck in her mouth. She tried to keep herself from cumming until she’d slurped through the outer candy shell and hit the pay dirt of the chocolate tootsie roll center of the sucker. Harper tried to convince herself that these regular sessions were therapeutic, were putting her better in touch with her sexuality, even though the calories from the almost-daily sucker intake was adding weight, and the guilt of being a confirmed lesbian was even weightier.
And then, almost inevitably (especially if you paid attention to the title), it happened. Harper had an especially strong orgasm looking at Miss May in an issue from several years before. Her pussy gooshed and ejaculated, something Harper didn’t know it could do. Simultaneously, the delicious sucker made her mouth salivate more than usual, and a dribble of cherry-flavored drool leaked out of the corner of mouth. Both of these bodily spills splattered the glossy page of Miss May showing off her cute ass. Mortified, she closed up the magazine, replaced it in the correct order in the cardboard box, put it away, and went to her room to fret.
What to do, what to do? she frantically asked herself. Harper could almost hear the hypothetical brakes being applied to her thought process as her parents pulled into the driveway. Nothing for now, she silently answered her screaming mind. She went to bed early that Saturday night but couldn’t fall asleep. If her Dad browsed that particular magazine on this particular night (before going to bed himself, to have conjugal relations, as was habitual on a weekend night), he’d discover the soiled evidence. If he didn’t, and Harper stole the magazine tomorrow from the stash (say, perhaps while they were at church), he’d probably notice its absence (to say nothing about having to lie about not feeling well to keep from attending church, having to steal on the Sabbath…). None of her options looked good.
She did say that she didn’t feel well on Sunday morning, proving it by not having a bite of the mouth-watering French toast her Mom had made for breakfast. She did take the ruined magazine from the hiding box and take it back to her bedroom while they were at church. While Mom was busy starting a pot roast for dinner that afternoon, Harper asked her Dad to come to her room.
She’d concocted an elaborate lie in all the time she’d had to wait for this meeting. “I was looking around the house for mementos, old pictures, yearbooks while you were at church… You see, I’m making a special collage for Mom for her upcoming birthday… I happened upon a box in the closet in the den…” He Dad had a poker face, even when she produced the Playboy magazine as evidence. She handed it to him. “I had a sucker in my mouth, the candy seemed to soothe my upset tummy… I leafed through this issue, out of curiosity… By coincidence, my mouth watered from the sucker, and I drooled on the magazine… Its pages are now stuck together…” She hoped that he couldn’t smell her sexual scent on the magazine as he leafed through the glued-together pages. “I’m sorry, Daddy…”
“I see…” was all he said, thoughtfully.
“It was an accident…” Harper compounded lie upon lie.
“I see…” he repeated.
“I feel terrible about it… I’d like to try to make it right… If you want to spank me, I’m ready to face that consequence…”
Her Dad looked up at Harper from where he sat on the edge of her bed. He’d sat in that exact same spot and put her over his knee and pulled her pants down and spanked her bottom quite hard on three previous occasions growing-up. That’s what she expected now. She almost hoped for it; Harper felt guilty as sin for about five different offenses.
Finally her Dad spoke. “Your Mother doesn’t know I have this…material. If she hears the commotion of a spanking, she’s sure to ask about it. If she sees your bruised behind in the next several days, she’s sure to ask about that… You are probably too old to spank, anyway…”
Harper stood there expectantly. The tingle in her buttocks stopped. She wasn’t sure what was happening.
Her Dad continued, “I’m going to put this magazine in the trash can out on the curb. I suggest you not mention anything about this whole affair to anyone, especially your Mother. Like the minister said in today’s sermon, Harper, ‘Go and sin no more’. Does that sound workable?”
“Yes, sir, if you do…”
He hesitated at her bedroom door, put the magazine under his arm so his hands were free. He got out his wallet, got out from it a twenty dollar bill, and handed it to Harper.
“Put this toward that birthday gift for your Mother,” he said, “in case the collage doesn’t pan-out.” He smiled, kissed her forehead, and left quietly.
Any other young lady would be ecstatic. She had gotten away with it, all of it! But Harper wasn’t any old young lady. She felt horrible! She thought she might vomit, this time for real. She’d sinned in multiple ways, and gotten paid for it! She didn’t eat much pot roast for dinner, didn’t eat much at all for the whole week, until the next Saturday night, when her parents had a movie date. That week had given Harper time to think of a plan (especially as she laid in bed sleeplessly night after night).
As soon as Dad drove Mom away to the Bijou, Harper sprinted to her bedroom. Mom never sees my ass anymore, she thought to herself, disproving the only good argument her Dad had against the remedy Harper planned now. She pulled off her gym shorts and underwear and bent over the edge of her bed. Harper picked up the hairbrush she’d laid out ritualistically for this punishment session. Something instinctively told Harper to spit on the polished wooden surface of the large hairbrush’s back. She reached back and gave her butt as hard a swat as she could. It stung. Like hell! She gave herself another, and another, and just kept at it. She closed her eyes. Tears squeezed out the corners, but in the blackness, Harper visualized the comely Miss May. She imagined the buxom beauty from the magazine being the one giving Harper’s bottom the thorough thrashing. It hurt so good! Using her other hand to masturbate made it feel even better. Heavenly! It seemed like poetic justice; jism and drool had gotten Harper into this trouble, now they were the balm for her painful recourse.

8 responses to “#297) Jism and Drool”

  1. I like to mix it up, some deserving bottoms get off from punishment, and some innocent buttocks get punished hard just for the hell of it. That’s how the world works, so my stories do, too…

    Liked by 2 people

      • You and me both, paddlefan! Standing in front of a lover, pulling my pants down to facilitate things, looking him imploringly in the eye, asking for it, not with behavior or bratting, but with the simple words, “Spank me, please, sir. I need it…!” Yum, SO erotic!

        Liked by 1 person

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